


Kindling

by seeminglyincurablesentimentality (myinnerchildisbored)



Series: Rose and Tommy - Bonus Material [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:21:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22492012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myinnerchildisbored/pseuds/seeminglyincurablesentimentality
Summary: Charlie isn't a real gypsy boy. He knows this. But maybe a boy can change...Set about a year before 'Dragon Slayers' - so Charlie is six and Rosie thirteen.
Series: Rose and Tommy - Bonus Material [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602865
Comments: 18
Kudos: 34





	Kindling

**Author's Note:**

> Jessie - reader and commenter par excellance - suggested a piece from Charlie's POV. Now, of course I had to try. I don't know how well it's turned out - didn't come exactly natural - so let me know what you reckon.

Charlie isn’t a real gypsy. He knows this.  
  
Real gypsy boys need only a tree stump or an apple crate to get up on a horse; and once they are up on the horse, they only need a piece of rope to control it. They certainly don’t faff about with saddles and things.  
  
Real gypsy boys can kill rabbits with stones and sticks and slingshots or trap them with bits of wire; and they absolutely love eating the killed rabbits. Actually, real gypsy boys would eat pretty much anything at all; because real gypsy boys aren’t fussy.  
  
Real gypsy boys don’t mind getting cold and wet and dirty, either; they can run fast and they don’t cry if they fall, not even if they are bleeding. They box for fun. They know how to use a knife. They can make fires even when it’s raining.  
  
Charlie knows this, because he’s at least gypsy enough to understand most of what Johnny Dogs and his fellas say. He wishes he didn’t, because it makes him feel bad. It makes him feel not enough. And, sometimes, it makes him feel like crying; especially when they laugh.  
_  
He’s as much a duck as he’s a fuckin’ Shelby, that one…haha_ bloody _ha…  
_  
However, Charlie also knows that a man has the power to change himself into whatever he wishes to be. He knows because, sometimes…well, one time, really, maybe twice…his daddy sat down on the side of his bed and told him so.  
_  
When I was your age, Charlie, I’d no shoes on me feet and wouldn’t have known a proper dinner if it bit me on me boney arse. And now, look at me. A man has the power to change himself, my boy, and don’t let anyone tell you different.  
_  
Well. If a man has that power, then a boy must have it, too. Boys are the same as men, really, aren’t they; only a bit smaller.  
  
So, that’s what Charlie will do. He’ll change himself into a real gypsy boy. A boy no one will laugh at. A boy his daddy can be proud of; _really proud_ , not just in that make-belief way of trying not to wince when Charlie plays the violin. Someone he’ll clap on the shoulder in that way that always looks a little bit too hard; and then he’ll say: _Well done_ – quietly and quickly.  
  
All Charlie has to do is learn all the things real gypsy boys can do.  
  
So, when he wakes early one Tuesday, long before breakfast, the fire in the drawing room not even been lit yet; Charlie makes his way out the back and towards the stables to start…changing.  
  
You can tell it’s going to be a proper summer’s day. The grass steaming already, even though the sun is barely over the big tree by the gate.  
  
The grooms come in late on a Tuesday. Charlie isn’t entirely sure why - it has something to do with the races on Saturday and Sunday and the rest working men deserve after putting in the hard yards – but it means the stables are deserted, save for the huffing horses greeting him with friendly whinnies from inside their boxes.  
  
The very last box is empty, it always is. It’s something to do with reminding yourself that it isn’t a given to have lots of horses, from what Charlie gathers; something about remembering what it’s like to have nothing. Either way, the empty box is an excellent place to practise.  
  
Rosie got the flint stones as a present of Johnny Dogs, years ago; because Johnny Dogs and his fellas love her. They love her in a gruff and shove-y sort of way, in a way where they don’t just deign to let her help with the horses (the way they sometimes do with Charlie) but in a way where they shout at her to get off her lazy arse when she’s not offering. Because Rosie is a real gypsy girl and, from what Charlie gathers, that might even be better than being a proper gypsy boy.  
  
The flint stones are very light. They look like ordinary rocks. But Charlie knows they work. He’s seen.  
  
Months ago, on a frosty morning, Rosie got the fire in her room going using the flint stones and Charlie was allowed to watch and twist the paper together. It looked easy. All you have to do is knock the rocks together a bit, until there’s sparks flying.  
  
Maybe it’s a bit weak to start changing by learning the easy stuff, but Charlie strongly suspects that changing into a real gypsy boy will be hard, so he might as well get the simple bits out of the way. He’ll learn to make a fire. And then how to catch and kill something. And then, he’ll cook his daddy some dinner over a fire he’s made himself and then, maybe, he’ll get one of those looks that are like the sun shining through the storm clouds.  
  
There’s enough bales of hay in the empty box to build a cubby with; and Charlie pulls out a couple of fist-fulls to make a wonky little pile on the trampled dirt floor. It will be as good as paper and all he needs now is some sticks.  
  
Charlie may not be a real gypsy boy, but he is a lucky boy, because right behind the stable is a huge pile of freshly cut branches. The gardeners have been trimming the trees because winter is coming. Charlie isn’t sure why you need to trim a tree before winter, but he’s not complaining. Carefully, he selects a couple of thin branches and drags them into the stable.  
  
“Sh-sh-sh…” he hushes the horses on his way past them, trying to make the same noise Rosie and his daddy make. “Only me, don’t be scared.”  
  
It's harder to arrange the sticks than he expected; they’re all different lengths and keep slipping all over the place. Rosie says there’s many different ways to build a fire; but she also says that, in case of doubt, you’re best off making a sort of teepee shape. Charlie is in doubt, but also incapable of making a teepee shape.  
  
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, as he puts the sticks flat onto the hay, a star shape more than anything; it’s only the first attempt. He knows though, deep down, that this is the sort of talk he would only get from Frances and his violin teacher. _Good try, Charlie, well done_ – when everyone knows that trying doesn’t matter. You’ve got to get things right or not bother at all. That’s what his daddy says; not to Charlie, not so far, but he’s said it to Rosie plenty of times.  
  
Charlie crouches down, a flint in each hand, and strikes. Nothing happens.  
  
He tries again. And again. And again.  
  
And again.  
  
There’s not so much as a spark. Because Charlie isn’t a real gypsy; he’s just a stupid boy knocking stones together in front of a pile of rubbish. Like the worst kind of gadj.  
  
He flings the stones across the empty box, wiping furious at the tears that are now threatening. Real gypsy boys don’t cry. Maybe when a horse steps on their foot they do, but otherwise no.  
  
And Charlie won’t either.  
  
He gets up to get the flints and spots an old newspaper stuffed behind a barrel. Excellent. Maybe, if he's lucky, it’s not the flints. Maybe the sparks are so tiny that it’s too bright in the stables to see them. Maybe if he has paper as kindling, the invisible sparks will catch.  
  
Charlie twists the newspaper into little ropes, just like Rosie showed him. This time, he strikes the stones much harder than before. He whacks himself in the thumb and draws a little blood, but Charlie doesn’t mind. Because there’s a tiny spark. It doesn’t catch the paper; but it’s there.  
  
Right.  
  
He gets on his knees and bends right down. The dirt floor is rough against his knees and he’s getting his socks filthy, but no matter. With all his might he strikes the flints again, dragging them across each other. Sparks fly and the paper smolders. Charlie strikes again and there, right in front of him, is a flame. A real life, actual flame.  
  
Charlie lets out a whoop of triumph. He’s never been this excited, not at Christmas, not on his birthday, not ever.  
  
But then the flame reaches the hay and a moment later, Charlie’s excitement turns into terror.  
  
He’s done it wrong. He’s done it all wrong. He’s gotten so caught up in trying to put the sticks in some sort of order, he hasn’t paid attention to the hay. It’s all spread out. It’s like a trail leading to the big bale by the wooden wall of the box. And it’s on fire.  
  
Charlie freezes and the flames grow huge. They’re licking up the side of the box, turning the wood black.  
  
Water. You can put fire out with water. But there’s nothing, not even an empty bucket. There’s nothing and Charlie can’t move and he can’t scream and-  
  
“Fuckin’-“ The shout comes from behind him but Charlie can’t turn around. “What-“

He's shoved roughly out of the way.  
  
“Fuckin’ move, Charles!” Rosie shouts.  
  
She’s stepping over the trail of fire, rips an ancient horse blanket from the top of a feed barrel and starts beating the flames with it. It’s working a little, but the wooden wall is  
starting to smolder behind her.  
  
“Get help!” Rosie yells. “Charlie!”  
  
She jumps over the still smoking bits of hay she’s put out and shoves the blanket at him. For a second, Charlie panics, thinking she’s leaving him. But then Rosie’s back, hauling a huge metal bucket with her. Water drenches the wall but the flames won’t go out, not completely. Rosie sprints off and Charlie watches a little line of fire travel towards him, travelling by way of stray bits of hay that have escaped Rosie’s blanket. It’s at his shoe by the time Rosie’s back.  
  
“Jaysis-“  
  
Charlie is ripped backwards and shoved out of the box.  
  
“I didn’t mean to-“ he starts.  
  
“Get help!” Rosie screams and she’s so disheveled and wild that there’s no disobeying her.  
  
Charlie hurtles out of the stables and towards the big house. He can see Frances on the top of the stairs and his daddy just about to get into the car. He looks up when Charlie comes running.  
  
“Charlie?”  
  
Charlie’s breathing so hard he can’t get the words out. Until he can.  
  
“Fire!” he howls.

#

When they come running into the box, Charlie hot on the heels of his daddy, Rosie is beating the last of the flames on the burning wall. The floor in covered in something that wasn’t there before and his daddy skids and goes flying, landing on his bottom. It would be funny at any other time.  
  
“It’s orright,” Rosie pants. “I’ve got it…”  
  
“What the bloody hell-“ His daddy is grabbing a handful of the stuff on the ground, staring at Rosie.  
  
“Horse feed…” Rosie staggers away from the wall and puts her hands on her knees. “Nearly ‘s good as sand…”  
  
Their daddy gets to his feet slowly. He looks at the knocked over barrel of barley still rolling a bit in the corner.  
  
“ ‘d you know that would work?” he asks Rosie.  
  
“Got lucky,” she says.  
  
Charlie will remember this. As an old man, he will remember this; that when there’s nothing better at hand, a barrel of barley will extinguish a fire.  
  
“So-“ his daddy is up properly now and straightens his jacket “-what happened here then, eh?”  
  
Charlie looks at Rosie and Rosie looks at Charlie. Their daddy doesn’t. He’s only looking at Rosie.  
  
“There was a fire,” Charlie says.  
  
“I can see that, Charlie,” daddy says. “How’d it start?”  
  
Rosie is shuffling her feet ever so slightly, getting the horse feed away from them, clearing small patches for her to stand in. So she won’t slip. In case she needs to run.  
  
“Answer me!”  
  
Charlie jumps and nearly starts crying, even though his daddy isn’t shouting at him, is not even looking at him. Rosie rolls a shoulder, that’s all, like her ear is itchy. Charlie feels like he’s going to be sick; because, surely, Rosie’s going to answer. And then…Charlie’s mouth is dry…he’s never so much as gotten a smack of his daddy, but this…  
  
“Dropped me smoke.”  
  
Charlie gapes, unsure whether he’s heard right.  
  
“Eh?” Their daddy cocks his head in a chicken sort of way, it would make Charlie laugh any other time.  
  
“It got in the bale,” Rosie says. “I couldn’t find it quick enough.”  
  
Their daddy takes to giant steps, not slipping this time, grabs Rosie by the arm and whacks her upside the head with his free hand.  
  
“How many times have you been told-“ he gives her another one and Rosie ducks her head “- no smoking in the bloody stables?”  
  
“Dunno-“  
  
“You know better,” their daddy barks, smacking Rosie with each word.  
  
“Everybody does but,” Rosie protests, trying to cover her head. “ _You_ do!”  
  
“Do you need a good hiding?”  
  
“Do I fuck,” comes Rosie’s voice from between her hunched shoulders.  
  
“Come here-“ Charlie’s daddy explodes, looking madder than Charlie’s seen him in a long time.  
  
He drags Rosie by the arm away from the wall, looking all around the box and it takes Charlie a second to understand that their daddy is looking for a weapon. For something to  
hit Rosie with and make it hurt more, because Rosie isn’t scared enough yet. Because Rosie isn’t crying. Because Rosie isn’t saying sorry.  
  
It’s not fair. Charlie’s belly starts to churn, that’s how unfair it is. It’s unfair because Rosie doesn’t get scared or cry or say sorry, not ever. It’s unfair that their daddy doesn’t know this, because it might mean he’ll hit Rosie for a really long time. It’s unfair because Rosie hasn’t done anything. Charlie has. And Rosie…Rosie is saving him.  
  
“Daddy-“ he starts.  
  
He doesn’t hear him, but Rosie’s head pops up and she glares at him.  
  
“Piss off, Charlie,” she snaps, jerking her head towards the road to freedom behind him.  
  
Their daddy takes another step and there’s a loud crack when he treads on one of the sticks. They both look down, Rosie and Charlie’s daddy, and stare at the ground. Because,  
Charlie notices it only now, his useless campfire is perhaps the only bit in the box that hasn’t caught fire at all.  
  
Rosie rolls her eyes towards the ceiling, their daddy frowns.  
  
“What’s this in aid of?” he asks.  
  
Rosie shrugs and their daddy bends down – his hand still wrapped around Rosie’s arm – and picks up a stick. For a second Charlie worries that his daddy’s going to use the stick on Rosie, but he just frowns at it for a bit and then, finally, looks over at Charlie. Because, even with all the barley and all the smoke in the box, even though Charlie didn’t get the teepee shape, there’s no mistaking his campfire for anything else.  
  
Their daddy lets go of Rosie and Charlie takes a step back without meaning to. Surely he’s in for it now. But then, their daddy turns back to Rosie, giving her the sort of look  
Frances gives Charlie when he comes inside with mud on his boots.  
  
“Robin bloody Hood, are you?” he asks.  
  
“Nah,” Rosie says.  
  
“Sure now?”  
  
“D’you see merry men anywhere?” Rosie snaps.  
  
“Orright, orright…” To Charlie’s great surprise, their daddy holds up his hands like he’s being robbed at gunpoint. “Keep your bloody hair on, Rosie.”  
  
“What’s left of it…” Rosie runs her hands through her hair and only now does Charlie see that most of Rosie’s fringe is singed curly.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he croaks.  
  
They look at him and Charlie knows he’s been forgotten, again.  
  
“Ah, you’re orright,” says Rosie; but his daddy says: “Come here.”  
  
Charlie doesn’t want to, but he does, very slowly; because real gypsy boys don’t run scared when there’s trouble coming. His daddy is looking down at him, his face very serious.  
  
“You won’t do that again,” he announces.  
  
“No,” Charlie whispers.  
  
“Good,” his daddy says. “Now. Thank your sister.”  
  
Charlie feels his face glowing red.  
  
“He’s orright,” Rosie says again and, when their daddy gives her a dubious look, adds: “What? It was an accident. Couldn’t make a fire like that if you meant to, eh, Charlie?”  
  
“True enough,” Charlie’s daddy says. “But he’ll thank you all the same. For dealing with his messes. Charles?”  
  
Shame is making Charlie’s skin crawl. He’s being let off the hook, he knows; and the relief washing over him makes him more ashamed still.  
  
“Thank you, Rosie,” he manages.  
  
“Good boy,” his daddy says. “Off you go.”  
  
Charlie turns and walks. Out of the box and out of the stable and up towards the house. He’s crying before he even makes it to the steps, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter, because he’s not a real gypsy boy. He’s a gadj.  
  
Gadjes can’t help that they’re stupid, there’s no point in blaming them. Gadjes don’t know better. Gadjes can’t do a simple thing without causing disaster. Gadjes are laughable.  
Charlie knows this the same way he knows that Frances is going to make him bath before breakfast now. He knows it the same way he knows that she’ll not let him into the tub until the water’s just right. He knows this the same way he knows that the towels will be fresh and his hair will be combed. He knows this because he’s a gadj.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
